Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (31 page)

jahnboy: Should we cancel the party?

Kera’s hands began to shake and she pushed away from the computer. Nicole had reached out to her for guidance. Just as Jessie had. Now they were both dead, gone from this life forever. What in the hell was going on? Who was targeting these girls?

Kera took a long drink of wine, then wandered aimlessly through the house. Was the girls’ communication with her somehow a trigger for their deaths? Or was it a coincidence? The girls had both come into Planned Parenthood recently. Kera thought about the psychopath who was targeting her for her work at the clinic. Could it be the same person? Did the killer think the girls were sinners who deserved to die? And how did it fit with Jackson’s theory about the mayor?

Kera ended up on the back deck, breathing in the cool night air. Then, impulsively, she called Jackson’s cell phone. He didn’t answer, so she left him a brief message. “Jackson, it’s Kera. I heard about Nicole. And I’m worried. I need to talk to you.”

Kera went back to her desk and checked the messages on the chat site to see if she could learn more. The conversation was still going but it was mostly speculative …
was she naked like Jessie? Was she raped?
Then a new joiner to the chat room said his brother’s friend, a guy named Travis Walters, claimed to have discovered the body when he and another guy were up at Party Rock getting high.

Kera shut the machine down and went in search of something to read. She had to distract herself. She found an unread copy of Mother Jones in the stack of mail on her dining room table and settled into a chair in the family room.

Moments later, she heard a thump near her front door.

The sound startled her and she almost spilled her wine. Her brain jumped immediately to the psycho stalker who had sent her poison. Kera’s heart began to pound. She ran to the kitchen and grabbed a container of mace from a drawer near the stove. She kept it on hand to take with her when she went for walks by herself.

Mace gripped tightly in her fist, Kera moved cautiously toward the door. She had locked it, hadn’t she? Of course she had. She was being extremely careful about that now. She cursed the alarm service company for postponing her installation.

Footsteps sounded right outside the front door.

Monday, October 25, 4:35 p.m.

After leaving Edgewood Park, Jackson dropped Evans off at the department so she could pick up her own car. While he was in city hall, he stopped at his desk to check his phone and e-mail messages and to call the state ME. The receptionist said Hillary Ainsworth was busy, but Jackson insisted on speaking to her right away.

After a long wait, Ainsworth came to the phone and said, “This better be important, Jackson. I was in the middle of a teaching autopsy, and we were looking at a very interesting liver.”

“I have another young girl coming your way tonight. We may be dealing with a serial killer, and the attacks were less than a week apart.”

“Oh dear. Not another Green River type, I hope.” She was referring to a notorious killer who had victimized prostitutes in the Portland–Vancouver area for decades before they caught him.

“The deaths aren’t as violent as those cases, but this one is targeting a much smaller circle of victims. My daughter used to be in that circle. I need you to do the autopsy first thing in the morning.”

“Are you too close to this one, Jackson? Do you need to take yourself off the case?” Ainsworth threw it out as a casual observation. Jackson didn’t sense any real concern from her.

“I’m fine.” It had not occurred to him to tell his superiors about Katie’s past friendship with the victims. Telling them now would only serve as a setback to the investigation. “I’ll be there by eight sharp with the victim’s clothes, which were found separately from the body. Can we do the autopsy then?”

She let out a deep sigh. “I’ll change the schedule.”

Jackson stopped at home to pick up Katie. He intended to take her to her Aunt Jan’s again. This would be another long night for him, and he didn’t want his daughter to be alone. He stepped into the house, called out “Katie,” then checked the answering machine. As he skipped through the telemarketing messages, he called out to his daughter again.

When she didn’t respond, he shut off the answering machine and headed for her room. But Katie wasn’t there. Had she made plans that he’d forgotten about?

Her blue denim backpack was on the floor. Katie never went anywhere without her backpack.

An icy knot filled his stomach. Where the hell was she?

Jackson ran down the hall and into the kitchen, looking for a note. A sauce pan that had cooked macaroni and cheese was soaking in the sink, but no note was on the table.

Where in the hell was his daughter?

Jackson ran for the answering machine and pushed play. Any second he would have an answer, he told himself. He skipped through a message from his credit card company and a message from his brother, who he hadn’t spoken to in four months. Nothing from Katie. He checked his cell phone. No message there either.

Where would she go? Emily’s? What was the girl’s last name and did he have her number?

Jackson’s heart pounded like a set of cylinders on a V-twin Harley. The thought that he had been pushing away suddenly slammed its way in. What if she had been taken? Kidnapped, raped, and killed by the maniac who was preying on her old circle of friends?

“No!” His shout echoed in the empty house. He pressed speed dial and called Renee’s sister.

“This is Jackson. Have you seen Katie?”

“Not today. Why? What’s wrong?” Jan caught his contagious panic.

“She’s not here. Her backpack is here, but Katie isn’t here.”

“Did you check with your neighbors? Katie’s been talking about a litter of puppies–”

Jackson ran for the front door just as Katie burst in.

“Hi Dad. I had dinner without you. Have you seen the Finkler’s puppies yet?”

Jackson snapped the phone shut without saying goodbye. He grabbed Katie in a hug that must have been painful for her. After a moment, she wiggled to get free.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes and no.” Jackson took a deep breath. “I didn’t know where you were. It scared me. Please, don’t ever leave the house again without leaving a note or calling me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was just next door. I didn’t think you’d be home until later.”

“Humor me. In a few minutes, you’ll understand why. Now, please back a bag. I need to take you over to Aunt Jan’s.”

He told her about Nicole, and Katie burst into tears. The guilt ripped him apart. She needed him to be there, and all he could give her was a hug and a promise that this was an unusual situation, that their lives would be back to normal very soon.

But it was a promise he might not be able to keep. For the first time, he seriously doubted his ability to be a good detective and a single father at the same time. Tonight’s scare had brought that home.

On the way to the Clarkes’ house, Jackson called Schakowski and asked him to track down the ID of the person who had reported finding the body. If it had been a land-line phone, the owner and address would have come up on the dispatcher’s monitor. But cell phones were not in the system yet.

Vehicles clustered around the Clarke house on both sides of Potter Street, and Jackson had to settle for a spot about three homes away. Evans was parked nearby and waiting for him. The sun had begun to set and the sky threatened rain. Jackson could smell it in the metallic quality of the air. Their Indian summer was over.

“Mourners gathered already?” Evans commented as they walked toward the two-story home. “This could make our job difficult.”

“Or save us a lot of time. Why don’t you start on the neighbors?”

“Gladly.” Evans kept moving up the street.

The walkway to the Greiners’ house was lined with short black yard lamps that lit up as he moved toward the wide front steps. Two fake ceramic fawns were nestled under a Boxwood hedge near the tall concrete porch. Jackson rang the doorbell and braced himself for more grief. At least he hadn’t been the one to break the news this time.

Joanne Clarke opened the door, shook her head, then silently waved him in. Beyond the foyer, the spacious high-ceilinged living room was filled with people, most in their thirties and forties, with a few teenagers sitting together on the pale beige carpet. Jackson’s entrance drew a series of glances from the group, some surprised, others angry. But most of the supporters quickly returned to their prayers. Only one of the men continued to stare, then stood and walked toward him. He was at least six-two and heavyset with a drinker’s nose and thick straight eyebrows.

Jackson took out his notebook and pen. He preferred not to shake hands with anyone he had to question in connection with a crime.

The man’s expression was animated. “I’m Reverend John Strickland, of the First Bible Baptist Church.” His energy telegraphed confidence—an assertive man who was used to being in charge. “This is a private prayer session. Among good Christian people. You have no business here, and I’d like you to leave.”

Jackson stepped forward into Strickland’s personal space. “Detective Jackson, of the Eugene Police. The sooner you and your members cooperate with our investigation, the faster we can find this killer.”

Strickland’s eyes wavered, then he stepped aside. “Please make it quick.”

Jackson nodded and turned back to Joanne Clarke, who hovered near him, twisting her hands in a white-knuckled grip. Jackson touched her arm lightly. “Can we go somewhere private and talk?”

They moved through a large kitchen with an island counter in the center and into the family room on the other side. A group of young children were playing video games in front of a wide-screen TV. The kids didn’t even look up as Jackson and Mrs. Clarke stepped into a small office at the back of the house.

Their conversation was brief. Mrs. Clarke’s story hadn’t changed. She and her husband had left Nicole at home alone and driven to Portland with a church group. When they returned around midnight, Nicole was gone.

“Why do you keep asking me this?” she wanted to know. “How does it help you find my daughter’s killer?”

“Every piece of information could be important. For example, I need to know exactly what Nicole had in her possession when she left the house. Backpack? Purse? Cell phone?”

“Her school backpack is in her bedroom. And she never carried a purse. Just a cell phone and a tiny little compact case with her house key and a tube of lip gloss.”

“What does the compact look like?” Jackson asked, as he made a note to track down the cell phone.

“It’s lavender with silver beading.”

“Any jackets or sweaters missing?”

She shook her head.

“Thanks for your patience. Is your husband here? I need to talk with him again too.”

She nodded. “I’ll go get him.”

Jackson filled out his notes while he waited. In a few minutes, Steve Clarke appeared, looking even more gaunt than he had that morning. His eyes were swollen, and he was still wearing the same shirt and jacket. But the tie had come off. He also stuck to his story and griped about having to tell it again.

Jackson ignored the complaints. “Who else drove to Portland with you? Are any of them here now?”

“Why is that important?” Clarke jumped up from the chair. “Are you checking out our story? Are we suspects?”

“I’m just doing my job. Please be patient and answer my questions.”

Clarke made a groaning noise. “Sam and Ruth Greiner and John and Eva Strickland. Ruth, John and Eva are here now.”

“Not Sam Greiner?” Jackson jotted down the names.

“I haven’t seen him.”

“What did Nicole do yesterday before you left for the meeting?”

Clarke pressed his hands to his forehead. “We went over this with Officer Zapata. We all attended Jessie’s memorial service, then we had dinner with Nicole, then left for the meeting when the Greiners picked us up.”

“Did Nicole have a boyfriend?”

Steve Clarke lost his patience. “No! She’s fourteen.”

“No offense intended. I’m just trying to figure out who she might have left the house with.”

“She didn’t leave voluntarily. Unless she was tricked. Nicole followed the rules.”

“Okay.” Jackson had questioned too many stunned parents to put much stock in that conviction. “Thanks. I’ll talk with you again later.” He walked Steve Clarke back to the kitchen, where a group of people had gathered around a large coffee cake.

“Any of your carpoolers here?”

Clarke pointed out Ruth Greiner and Eva Strickland.

His conversations with those who had driven to the CCA meeting confirmed the Clarkes’ account of the evening and gave him nothing new. He decided to chat with their daughters, who seem to have been unsupervised while their parents were in Portland. He called Angel Strickland back to the little office. He would have recognized her as Eva’s daughter even if he had not met her before; they had the same reddish-blond hair and sprinkling of freckles. He remembered that Angel had seemed shy the first time he questioned her, and she had trouble making eye contact again today. In a quiet voice, she told him that she’d sat with Nicole at Jessie’s service but hadn’t seen or talked to her since.